


The Long Season

by Nahara



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nahara/pseuds/Nahara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter is a harsh time for Marcus. Every year it only gets harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Season

**Author's Note:**

> There is supposed to be an embedded song in this fic, but AO3 won't allow it. So if you wish to read the fic with the song, head over to [my LJ](<br />http://thewordtree.livejournal.com/12916.html).

Esca remains with Marcus for three full cycles of the moon after they return the Eagle.

He seems contented at first; happy to simply attend the small farmstead Marcus has bought from Uncle Aquila. It is a beautiful piece of land with gentle hills and which abuts the northern most corner of his uncle’s more extensive property. He knows he is lucky. The reward for returning the Eagle was great and his uncle was generous in the negotiation of the land deed.

The farm, though small, is workable for two men with boundless energy and singular vision. They fix the leaking house which had stood empty for many years, they clear the field for planting wheat, together they go to market and buy chickens and a cantankerous old nanny goat that Esca names Stubborn Feet. Marcus laughs at this and teasingly gives the animal his own name: Little Esca. His friend does not appreciate his humour.

Marcus is proud of their new home and he thinks Esca is too, thinks Esca sees this as home; for that which is his will always, by extension, belong to Esca.

But as the fields begin to bronze in the fading summer, Marcus catches unguarded moments of Esca in solitary meditation: standing at a window, grey eyes tracking the roll of storm clouds; or sitting astride the low limb of a tree, head turned into a biting wind blowing in from the northlands. It’s as though something is calling to him.

Marcus, truth be told, has not allowed himself to spend much time contemplating what Esca would do as a freedman. After all they have achieved together and in deference to their hard-won trust and mutual respect, Marcus does not feel it his place, even as a friend, to assume Esca’s life choices. Assumptions are dangerous. He will never forget the bone-deep gratitude he felt when he woke upon the sands of the Seal People’s home and found that Esca had not left him.

Marcus had said that Esca could do whatsoever he wished after they turned their backs on the pomp of Rome. He means that sentiment as much now as he did then. Esca had laughed, had stayed beside him, but Marcus does not allow himself to believe this will always be so. Marcus will not be the one to tether such a spirit as Esca’s.

It’s the dreams which spell the beginning of the end. Esca always slept lightly, springing awake like any seasoned warrior at the slightest provocation, but the dreams were something new, something entirely different. From what little Marcus is able to observe, the night terrors come to Esca only rarely at first, but soon their grip on his sleep is near total. It is not pleasant to hear the distress and the unconscious thrashing on the other side of the room. As a soldier, Marcus has seen this countless times in countless men, but it will never be easy to witness.

One night Marcus cannot bear to let Esca live through his terror for a moment longer. He slips from beneath his warm furs and treads softly across the cold stones. He stands at the foot of Esca’s bed for a moment, watching him. The young man is muttering and his head shaking from side to side in distress.

“Esca.” There is no change, so Marcus says his name again, careful to keep the quiet, gentle tone. _Esca_.

Esca explodes from his bed, his arm flies towards Marcus, fist clenched around the hilt of his new dagger. The tip is brushing Marcus’ clavicle, though it’s not broken the skin. Esca’s eyes are wide and Marcus can see the whites even in the darkness of the room, like a wild horse. He holds out his hands to Esca in supplication.

“Peace, Esca. It was a dream, it was not real.”

He is given a blank look from Esca, who swallows hard several times before lowering his dagger.

“It _was_ real,” he says in a hoarse voice. “The boy.”

Marcus knows of whom he speaks: the Seal child, the brave boy who had held his tongue and who was killed for doing so. Marcus bows his head in acknowledgement. They are quiet for a time, both allowing their hearts to settle. Esca lies back against his mattress and stares at the ceiling, eyes dark and troubled. Marcus remains kneeling beside the bed, the stones leeching the warmth from his legs.

“Esca…”

“I don’t wish to talk, Marcus. Not about that.”

“No. I would not ask it. ” Marcus pauses before clasping a gentle hand to Esca’s shoulder. “Be well, Esca.”

He rises slowly, his injured leg stiff from the cold, and limps to his room. He shivers under the furs, rubbing palms against his thighs and forearms for heat. Esca is silent on the other side of the room. It is a long time before Marcus is able to drift back to sleep.

 

In the morning Marcus finds Esca’s bed empty, sheets neatly tucked around the mattress. He gets a curious and unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of it. Irrationally, he feels that he has lost Esca. It is not true, not entirely.

He finds the young man standing bare-footed in the newly planted fields. Once again his face is slanted towards the northlands, eyes open only a sliver. More than ever it looks as though he is listening to something, some great call that is both hypnotic and faint. The wind ripples across the wheat and it moves, undulating like the waters of a great, golden ocean. Esca cuts a striking figure; it’s not the first time Marcus has noticed. He is proud and stands so straight, shoulders thrown back, and his face somehow noble despite all that the gods have seen fit to throw his way. Marcus is awed by such quiet dignity and can only hope that he might have half so much grace in the face of his own misfortunes.

Esca doesn’t notice Marcus until he is beside him. He does not startle as he had last night, but his eyes open fully and his face tilts slightly towards Marcus, not looking but tacitly acknowledging Marcus’ presence. They are silent a long time, listening to the wind rustle the wheat.

“I would not hold you here,” Marcus says at last in a low tone. He doesn’t wish for Esca to take his words as an order, or to imply that he would not like for Esca to stay. Neither is true. He does, however, wish for Esca to be happy. Marcus has seen enough restless souls to know what it looks like.

His friend says nothing, but nods once. Marcus leaves Esca to his own thoughts, and walks back to the farmhouse, leaning heavily upon his cane.

 

The next morning Marcus wakes to find Esca’s bed empty and neatly ordered once again. But this time there is no Esca in the wheat field, no Esca in the barn or feeding Stubborn Feet or sitting in a tree or anywhere in Marcus’ life.

The new dagger Marcus had bought as a replacement for the one Esca had placed on a funeral pyre now lies on his desk. It is a bleak but solid pledge from Esca. Marcus is not sure what it is that Esca promises, but he knows it will be kept.

 

Esca does not come back in a few days as Marcus had hoped. But as the days turn to weeks and the wind becomes bitterer and harsher, chapping his lips and numbing his cheeks, Marcus stops watching the road. Esca is gone.

 

Winter settles, heavy and deep. Marcus takes to draping woollen blankets around him as he sees to the land. Like some old man, he thinks wryly. He grew up in the sun, in a place with blue skies and air scented with olive trees. The cold doesn’t suit him but he endures and finds a measure of happiness in his daily tasks, the simple strain of hard labour.

Britain is not a very big land, not compared to other territories in Rome’s great empire, but it feels old like no other place Marcus’ ever been. He can see it in the deepness of the green here, so much darker than his birth home. He sees it even in the softer shape of the wild landscape, like how a sharp-edged stone is slowly smoothed in a stream given enough time. Britain looks ancient; it has had a lot of time to weather. This country fits him like he was made to be here, the elements smoothing his roughness. It is strange to realise this after so many years of hating the distant, unknown place that had taken his father from him.

The snow doesn’t stay on the ground for long, but looks very pretty as it falls. Marcus watches it flutter softly from where he sits at his desk, ledgers and abacus spread across its smooth surface. The farm finances can wait, he thinks. Marcus would much rather run out to the courtyard and catch flakes on his tongue. The childish notion makes him chuckle to himself in embarrassment, not that anyone is there to see a lapse in his dignity. He glances at Esca’s dagger, which he hasn’t moved, and smiles slowly.

Marcus cannot run but walks as quickly as his injured leg will allow. He knows he’ll regret it later when he has to hang all his woollen blankets around the fire in the kitchen to dry, but right now Marcus cannot find it in him to care. The snowflakes taste bitter and cold but he keeps his face turned upwards, mouth open. His father had told him of snow when he was a child, hands expressive and eyes laughing at Marcus’ disbelief. It pains Marcus anew that his father should miss yet another personal milestone in Marcus’ life. Yet, oddly, what hurts more is that Esca is not here to share in his excitement.

Loneliness hits Marcus hard, sudden, and he hunches over, a hand splayed at his sternum as though to hold himself together long enough to limp to the house.

 

Several days later Uncle Aquila sends Stephanos to visit Marcus and make sure all is well. His uncle knows full well that Marcus has never seen snow or experienced a winter such as this. He is like a mother hen clucking and coddling. Marcus can’t help but hide a smile against the woollen wrap around his shoulders. Stephanos makes a disapproving face when he sees the state of the house. Marcus is not messy by nature, too many years in the military have drilled the impulse out of him, but it is hard to miss the emptiness and the dust. The house feels unlived in.

“Your uncle will not be pleased,” Stephanos says as he stokes the hearth to a renewed blaze. “Where is that freedman of yours?”

“He is not mine. That is the definition of a freedman.” Marcus regrets the acidity of his tone as Stephanos has always been good to him. The slave’s lips purse together for a moment.

“Not yours, but living off your patronage,” he concedes with a slight bow. “Where then is Esca?”

“Away.”

“When will he be back?”

“I…” Marcus turns away from Stephanos’ keen eyes. “I do not know.”

 

Her name is Ismene. She is the daughter of one of Uncle Aquila’s grooms, a humble man called Julianus. She comes to the farm most mornings to light a fire and to boil oats and bake bread so that Marcus does not starve – or so Uncle Aquila tells him with some degree of exasperation. _Do you think to live on fresh air alone, nephew?_ His uncle has a point.

Ismene is short of stature, with broad shoulders and a square face with strong, dark brows. She is plain in looks until Marcus sees her smile for the first time. It is as though a brazier is lighted within her person, so brightly does she smile, so warm is her nature. Marcus is charmed and grateful for her company.

Secretly Marcus thanks the gods for his Uncle’s good sense. Marcus is not a man to run at the mouth or seek the company of many people, but he is nevertheless unused to solitude for any length of time. He has been an army man for much of his life, where a comrade is never far from your reach should you wish companionship. Ismene may not be Esca, no one could be, but she is a calm presence in his home and a welcome one. She has a pleasant singing voice, soft and simple, and Marcus is not ashamed to admit he could listen to her from dawn until dusk if time would allow.

She knows how to cook the most amazing hare stew and bakes the best bread Marcus has ever tasted. If this were a different life, if the fates had dealt his hand otherwise, Marcus could see himself settling down with Ismene and having a large brood of children, working the farm together into old age. Their stations in life are markedly different, but Marcus has learned much in the past year. Esca has taught him much about the honour and soul of a person weighing greater than the social stature. Ismene is just such a worthy soul. But union between them is not to be. The other half of the farm – and Marcus’ heart – belong to another.

 

Marcus marvels at Britain’s weather. The snow was short-lived and the clouds now bring rain again, lots of it. Everything is damp and shining. He has never seen so many variations of rain. There is a kind of rain for every occasion. He says this to Ismene one afternoon as he stands at a doorway looking out at the sheets of rain, so thick it obscures the far side of the farm. Ismene comes to stand beside him at the doorway, hands covered in flour.

“It rains where you are from, surely, Master Aquila?”

“Yes, but not so often and not so varied. There is light rain and hard rain, there is no in-between. This is like humanity – a face for every emotion.”

“I like that,” Ismene says with smile. “You are a poet, Master Aquila.”

“A bad poet,” Marcus jokes. “And please, Ismene, call me Marcus. I insist there be no ceremony in this house.”

“Fine then, _Marcus_. What face is the British rain making today?”

Marcus laughs and inspects the torrential downpour. The wind moans and shakes the bare branches of the trees, whistling and shaking and crying. And the rain just keeps pouring, steady and unending. The laughter dries on his lips.

“Today,” he says, low, “today it is lamenting.”

 

The first bud of spring is a miracle and the loveliest thing Marcus has ever seen.

 

Marcus wakes to birds singing the morning chorus. He indulges by lying abed longer than he normally would; the sound is too perfect to interrupt with his huffing and puffing. It fills him with a robust vitality for the day ahead, a day spent tending to his farm and the animals. Maybe he’ll sit on the steps of his home and whittle, if he has time. He is in the process of carving a rudimentary horse for Ismene, who, despite its crude looks, seems genuinely delighted with Marcus’ offering. Spring brings out the best in him; it is a time of rebirth.

It is near midday and Marcus is in the stables, mucking out a stall when Ismene rushes in. She looks worried, an unusual expression for her, and so Marcus stops immediately.

“Ismene? Are you well?”

“Marcus,” she says slightly breathless. “There is a man here who says he knows you. He just… let himself in and gave me such a fright.”

Marcus glowers. “Who is he? To just let himself into…”

Ismene is shaking her head almost furiously, cutting Marcus off from saying anything further. “He says this too is his home, that he has come to collect his dagger. He says his name is –”

“Esca.”

“Yes.”

 

He’s standing by the desk, fingers resting over his dagger. His hair is longer and he looks thinner, but his skin is pink and healthy. It does Marcus’ heart good to see Esca standing once again within reaching distance.

Esca turns to face Marcus in the doorway. There is a timid smile on his lips, an apology perhaps.

“Why did you leave?” Marcus hears himself ask, as though from a distance.

“I had to,” is the simple, non-answer.

“Are you home then, for good?” Marcus cannot stop himself from asking. Esca says nothing. He looks away, out the window and across the rolling lands of the farm. He doesn’t need to have said anything for Marcus to know he has been answered.

 

Marcus introduces Esca to Ismene properly and the two get along as though they’ve known each other for years, kindred spirits. Ismene bakes extra bread and Esca teaches her how to sing songs from his homelands. The sound of their quiet chatter filling the house is better than Marcus could ever have expected. He’s missed people and laughter around him.

He’s told Ismene some of his and Esca’s shared history, though he’s sure the rumour mill has worked double time at Uncle Aquila’s estate and everything he’s said will not be a revelation to her. But she is nothing if not kind and nods in sympathy and understanding. So it is a surprise to hear her talking candidly with Esca one evening about their past. Marcus blames his shock on his lapse in manners; he’s been taught that it is unwise to eavesdrop.

“Did it not give you some measure of satisfaction, pretending Marcus was your slave?” She murmurs, curious. The question sends a shock through his body. It is hard to breathe.

“No,” Esca replies shortly. Marcus thinks this is all Ismene will obtain on the subject, and is about to make his presence known, when Esca speaks again. “I know what it is to be a slave, to no longer belong to the gods, but a man. I would not wish it on anyone.”

“You are a good man, Esca.”

“I have come to realise we – Marcus and I, _you_ – are all much of a sameness. We are human, we breathe, we bleed, we hope. In us we have the most ugly capacity for black-heartedness. There is no one person ‘better’.” Another long pause. “We all of us, also, have the greatest capacity for generosity, for mercy. For love.”

“You speak of Marcus?” Ismene asks, softly. It sounds as if she’s stopped her sewing, as intent on an answer as Marcus is.

“Perhaps,” Esca allows. “I find I don’t know myself around him.”

“Is that why you left?”

Marcus can no longer listen to this conversation. It was always meant to be private and he should not be surprised that it has burned him to listen. He doesn’t want to hear Esca’s answer, an answer he would not give Marcus but seems willing to impart on a virtual stranger. He goes silently to bed, face turned to the wall, eyes closed tight.

 

Esca stays for most of the summer months, helping Marcus with the harvest, going into town on market day with Ismene, fixing the broken stable doors, the ones Marcus kept saying he’d get to eventually. Esca spends much of his time outdoors for one reason or another, skin browning in the sun. Neither Esca nor Marcus speak of the winter they spent apart. Marcus does not want to open a wound that has barely healed. He does not know why Esca keeps silent, just that he does.

As the season changes, however, Esca once again begins to look distant, no longer entirely present in his own body. His conversation is distracted, he barely eats and no longer sings with Ismene. Marcus can feel him pulling away again, drawn to his other life in the north.

It still hurts, like he’s being frozen from the inside out, when Marcus wakes one icy winter morning to find Esca’s dagger lying carefully on his desk. He feels he is so cold, so brittle, that he is close to shattering.

This pattern, of Esca leaving for the winter and coming back in the spring, continues for several years. Marcus does not like it but feels unable to change it any more than he can hold back the rise and fall of the tide. Every year he celebrates the first snowfall alone, face to the sky, and every year he brings in the harvest with Esca by his side. It is not happiness but it will do. Marcus knows not to ask for more. He is too scared that one day he will wake and find that not only has Esca left him, but his dagger and promise gone too. He doesn’t know what keeps Esca coming back.

 

During their third winter, Ismene meets a shy young man named Aemilius, and the two are soon betrothed. It is a delightful time, for all that Marcus will be sad to lose her companionship. She sings more than ever, happy and beaming and ready to be loved. She particularly enjoys those ballads which Esca has taught her over the years. Marcus likes to lie by the fire in the evenings and listen to her as she darns, one of his cloaks or tunics in her lap.  


Esca comes back to the farm in time for the wedding ceremony, though it was a close thing. He stands still and proud beside Marcus as they watch Ismene smile fire-bright into her new husband’s face, hands resting in Aemilius’ larger ones. In their new world they are the only ones living. It is beautiful to see and Marcus wants desperately to reach out and rest his fingers against Esca’s palm. But he does not.

There is music and feasting later, which Marcus is happy to provide as gift to the newlyweds. Julianus, Ismene’s father, has tears in his eyes as he watches his daughter dance with her husband and thanks Marcus profusely for his generosity. The wine is plentiful and Marcus allows himself to drink deeper than he usually does.

As the moon waxes above the party, Marcus passes by a window to see Ismene talking quietly to Esca, face a little too solemn for the occasion. Curious, he finds himself moving to staying by the window, covered in shadow.

“I am glad you could be here,” Ismene is saying. Marcus feels his heart pound at him.

“I would not miss such a special day,” Esca says, smiling. It falters at the sad expression on her face, her dark eyes beseeching.

“Esca, you must know what I wish to say.”

“I can guess.” His head bows, face thrown in stark relief.

“Now I am gone, Marcus will be alone. Please, Esca, do not make him live through that. He is the best of men. Settle, Esca. It is time.”

“I am not so sure.” It is a brittle sounding whisper.

“Why do you come back?” Marcus has never dared ask that question aloud, too afraid of the answer. “If you do not care for Marcus or this life, why do you come back?”

“Perhaps I feel indebted to him.” The words are bitter and Marcus gasps in shock, quick to hide the noise behind the palm of a hand. Surely that is not really how Esca feels?

“You are a bad liar, Esca Mac Cunoval,” Ismene says almost kindly. Esca remains silent. “And you know the true answer, don’t you?”

Marcus sucks in a breath and moves from the window but doesn’t return to the festivities. He no longer feels very jolly, the alcohol making him dizzy.

 

Whatever Esca’s reply had been to Ismene’s plea, it must have been in the negative because Esca leaves Marcus the moment the air begins to grow cooler and the leaves begin to turn: brown and gold and orange. Esca has never left this early in the season. It is as though he couldn’t bear to stay for a moment longer.

Despite what Ismene said, she is not gone for good. Every once in a while she stops by the farm to gift Marcus with some of her wonderful bread and, though he insists she mustn’t, takes some of his clothes home for mending.

“What must your husband say?” He asks her once as she snatches at a tunic falling apart at the seams. She looks at him with an amused shake of the head.

“Aemilius likes you. He knows you are a brother to me.” Her smile wavers a little, dimming. “Neither of us likes to think of you alone.”

Marcus does not have an answer for that, because he is alone that winter. The occasional visit from his uncle or Ismene does little but remind him how isolated he is, how there is no one to share in the small joys of life and the small burdens. He misses Esca so much it feels like he’s bleeding and soon there will be nothing left of him. It doesn’t surprise Marcus when he catches a sickness. It has him laid up for days, body burning and his mind delirious.

The fever dreams bring him images of Esca in a gladiator’s ring, chest bare and face dripping with sweat and blood. Marcus is shouting for _life, life, life,_ thumb pointing up to the Heavens, but nobody is listening to him this time. Nobody sees him but Esca. Marcus screams until he is hoarse. Esca is watching him, eyes piercing and ready for death, telling Marcus to let go, that Marcus isn’t needed now, not where he is going. The audience cry for death.

When he wakes, fever broken, it’s to find a warm body in the bed beside him. For a long while he thinks it is just another dream, a nicer one where he is not alone and can pretend that it is Esca beside him. So he drifts back to sleep.

The shock is a physical punch to his ribs when he realises that there really is someone in the bed with him, curled around him protectively. He gasps at the familiar and loved tattoos in his line of sight.

“Esca?”

“I’m here Marcus.”

“But… I don’t…”

“Hush. Sleep. You are still weak from the fever.”

“But you were gone.”

“I was,” Esca agrees, quiet. “But I am not anymore.”

 

Upon waking again, Marcus finds himself alone and begins to panic until he sees Esca move across the room. He is heating water for a bath by the fire. Once done, Esca smiles and helps Marcus to undress and submerge himself in the bronze tub. It feels like heaven, the sweat and stench of fever washing from his skin.

“Why are you back?” Marcus asks. “It is not yet spring.”

“I came back because this is where I belong. This is my home.” He looks right at Marcus as he speaks, eyes bright. “No more running.”

Marcus can feel himself relaxing, the final knot of tense muscles letting go. He knows it’ll be fine now, everything will be good. He smiles a little.

“Can I ask… why did you run?”

There is a long pause from Esca, who sits by the tub and looks deep into the hearth, firelight illuminating his beloved face. Marcus is no longer worried about the answer.

“I had already given so much to you. I was not yet willing to give my heart. It took me these many years to realise it already beat for you. Wherever I ran.”

It was more than Marcus expected and he feels honoured that Esca has been so honest with him, that he has told Marcus that he loves him. Esca watches the play of emotions on Marcus’ face, seems to see that his words are welcome, and stands. He slowly removes his clothing, one item at a time, eyes never leaving Marcus. Esca is partially erect and Marcus can feel his own cock rise to attention at the sight. His mouth is dry but he smiles shyly as Esca steps into the water with him. The tub is so small that they are squashed together, legs drawn up, mouths breathing into each other.

“Ismene told me to stop leaving, that there was a reason I could not stay away,” Esca says, lips brushing against Marcus’ cheek and jaw, burning Marcus’ skin with each fleeting touch. “Loving someone means no longer answering only to yourself.”

“It is good to have you home.”

“You make my heart happy, Marcus. Let me show you.”

Esca’s touch is gentle, reverent, as he traces finger tips across muscles and joints. He is mapping Marcus’ body as diligently as the lands beyond their four walls. Perhaps he sees Marcus as a foreign country to be marvelled at, explored. Marcus lets his legs fall open to allow Esca to settle between them, bringing them closer in the warm tub of water. He wants to gather Esca as close as possible, cradle him with his thighs. Marcus blushes for the wantonness of his actions, but Esca settles his hips against Marcus and gives him a look that leaves him short of breath.

A strong hand takes both their lengths into a tight hold and begins to move, leisurely, up and down. Marcus groans, head tipping back. It allows Esca the perfect angle to suck at his throat, nipping and kissing and worshipping. Marcus’ heart is beating faster and he moves a little awkwardly in the water to better hold on to Esca, cupping the back of his neck and running shaking fingers through his unkempt hair. The continuous splashing sound of Esca’s arm moving in and out of the water makes Marcus’ balls tighten.

Those clever fingers continue to stroke and rub their lengths together and Marcus can see through the water that Esca is smaller than him, and slimmer, but the head of his cock is round and flushing almost purple. Marcus’ own cock is hard as rock. Esca swipes a thumb across his slit and he hears himself gasp. Esca kisses the sound out of him, hungry.

“Do you know how beautiful you are, Marcus? How much it gladdens me to be able to touch you like this? Free.” Marcus shudders, eyelids drooping. Esca’s voice is hot in his ear. “Sometimes, when I was alone and missing you so much it hurt, I would lie under the sky and touch myself like this; I would pretend it was you on me. I always came with your name on my lips.”

At these words, there is a rumble which starts in Marcus’ chest and slowly makes its way northward to his throat. Growling, Marcus plunges a free hand into the water between them and takes hold of Esca with his fingers. Esca’s hips jerk forward at the touch, water sloshing over the edge of the bath, and Marcus kisses his cheek, loving the flush that grows there.

Esca’s cock is burning hot in the cooling bath water, soft to the touch. He wants to see it better, so he gently removes Esca’s hold on him and they carefully position themselves in the small space so that Esca is straddling Marcus’ lap, knees tucked by his waist and hands holding on to the edge of the copper bath, caging Marcus in.

The head of Esca’s cock is now visible above the water, straining towards Marcus, twitching. Marcus turns his face to place a tender kiss to the tattoos on Esca’s arm, before taking his erection in hand.

It is amazing to see Esca come alive under his touch, chest heaving and head thrown back as he cries out. His hips rock so that Marcus’ cock rubs slowly against the crack of Esca’s arse. It is beyond any sexual experience Marcus has ever had, all the better for whom he’s sharing himself with.

“Marcus. Marcus,” Esca keens. Ignoring a rising blush, Marcus bends down awkwardly so that he can lick a tongue over Esca’s leaking cock, taste him, touch him as he hopes no other has. He can’t stay at that angle for long, but it matters little. Esca is shaking as his orgasm takes over him, body taut and beautiful and flushed. Marcus continues to stroke as the last of Esca’s seed splashes over them and into the water. Esca never stops saying his name.

It takes little for Marcus to follow, his control shot and his body trembling. Esca is loose-boned and languid as he rocks his body gently against Marcus’ prick. He whispers to Marcus, telling him to come for him, to let go. So he does. It feels like he’s whole again.

 

Marcus wakes late the next morning, the winter sun streaming through a window, with Esca once again nestled beside him, deep asleep. His quiet breathing the most joyous sound Marcus has ever heard. He watches the other man for a while, lashes dark against pale cheeks and a hand curled around the pillow by his head.

A movement at the door catches Marcus’ eye suddenly. It is Ismene. He knows he must be burning deep red but she’s smiling jubilantly, a hand placed carefully over her heart.

“Ismene, I…”

“Shhh.” She pads quietly across the room to kneel beside Marcus. She kisses him chastely on the forehead. In that moment he silently thanks every god he knows for sending her to him.

“Esca, he...” Marcus doesn’t know how to convey the magnitude of what has transpired between them, there is too much. Ismene’s smile is bright like the sun as she says,

“Now you are both home.”


End file.
